The Boy with 17 Senses Page 7

  They ate a happy dinner of cold crunchy sticks that Jaq had brought back in his backpack. They were slightly covered in wipper hair, but an empty stomach isn’t picky.

  16

  BETRAYAL TASTES LIKE ROTTEN EGGS

  The next morning, Jaq got up early to walk to the river and get some worms. The river was farther away now, but Jaq didn’t mind. He walked, imagining how surprised Bonip was going to be when he found the garden full of worms again. If there was one thing he knew about Bonip, it was that he was always hungry. Jaq smiled, picturing the gratitude on that little wipper’s face.

  Then he laughed out loud. I can’t believe it! Me, friends with a wipper!

  He filled his bucket with worms and walked home, ready to place them in his small garden of brickleberries and vegetables. (Vegetables weren’t so bad if you ate them while your mom read a nice story about minions or a funny poem.) While he walked, he happily dreamed of selling the glug and buying Klingdux back from Tormy Vilcot. Then he’d buy an irrigation system for the fields. After that, maybe he’d have enough left over to buy a fancy hoverbike. It would be amazing to show up at school in style. Kids would want to come over to his house just to ride with him, like they did with Tormy. He’d have lots of friends. It was going to be great.

  If only he could get rid of that little nagging voice in the back of his brain that told him it wasn’t going to be so great as long as Plenthy was still stuck on that sensory explosion called Earth. After all, it was Plenthy’s note that had led Jaq to all this glug. He owed the guy, and he had to figure out how to rescue him.

  “Well, well, well,” a voice said. It came from the brickleberry bushes. “It’s the skinny kid with the hair.”

  “Weren’t you wearing that shirt yesterday?” another said.

  “No, that was the scarecrow,” another replied. “I have to say, the scarecrow wore it better.”

  “His clothes are awful,” another said. “But they do take attention away from that nose.”

  Jaq recognized that last voice. “Bonip?” He looked over and saw a familiar twitchy nose duck back behind the ripweed stalks.

  “Bonip?” one of the wippers said. “You friends with this guy?”

  “Friends? With him? Don’t be ridiculous. He gets me worms, is all. Definitely not friends with that loser.”

  “Good, ’cause if you are friends with him, that means you gotta go. Talk about spoiling my flow.”

  “How about this one—you know why his clothes are torn? ’Cause even they can’t wait to get away from him,” Bonip suggested.

  “Good one! Even his clothes don’t want to hang out with him!”

  The rest laughed and hurled more insults at Jaq.

  “Yeah,” Bonip continued. “He told me he’s got seventeen senses . . . but I guess fashion sense ain’t one of them!”

  The wippers all roared with laughter.

  Jaq felt crushed. He could withstand the other wippers’ taunts. He’d put up strong mental walls to block those attacks, and the insults just bounced right off them. But Bonip had gotten past his defenses by being his friend. Or pretending to be. It’s hard to steel yourself to an attack from inside your walls, because it’s unexpected, which makes it hurt so much more. Jaq felt the betrayal through his whole body, from his shaky legs, to his gut, which felt like it had been punched, to his eyes, which blinked away tears as fast as they could form.

  Sling you all! he wanted to shout. I’m going to get my wipper-slinger back, and I’m going to watch him hurl you, over and over. Throw you so hard, you hit that tree and never come back.

  He went inside, leaving his bucket of worms by the door.

  It was midmorning by the time Grandpa was ready to go to the market. By then, Jaq’s anger had gone back into hibernation. He focused on the good he was going to do with his glug and forgot about the wippers.

  “Oh, my bones . . . Oh, my back . . . Oh, oh, oh,” Grandpa said. “How long have we been walking?”

  “We just left,” Jaq said. “I literally just closed the gate behind us.”

  “Well, it seems like forever. Let me stop and take a rest.” Grandpa leaned against the fence until it started to wobble. “There we go . . . Oh, oh, oh.” He sat down on the ground. Every movement Grandpa made was accompanied by a grunt, which sent out small purple starbursts in Jaq’s vision.

  It was going to be a long walk to the marketplace. Jaq looked up the road. How was he going to get Grandpa to walk all that way when he’d just collapsed after walking from the door to the gate, a total of twenty steps?

  He had to get Grandpa moving.

  “Grandpa,” Jaq said, “tell me about how you lost the farm.”

  “I don’t like to talk about it,” Grandpa said, the anger inside him forcing him up to his feet. He started pacing. “It just makes me so mad.”

  Jaq hoped that an angry Grandpa would be a walking Grandpa, so he kept talking. “Were you swindled? Like me with the key?”

  “Key? What key? I didn’t even get a key out of the bargain, no,” he said. “In that regard, you did me one better.”

  “What happened?” Jaq could remember visiting Grandpa at his old farm on just two occasions. It wasn’t until Grandpa lost the farm sixteen years ago, when Jaq was only thirty-three, that Jaq and his mother had come to help take care of him. This little tract of land was all he had left by that time.

  Grandpa stopped walking and turned to look at the Vilcots’ enormous farm. Jaq watched his grandfather’s gaze travel across the vineyard that separated their houses until it reached the Vilcots’ home. Past the large house lay an open field filled with animals. It was a beautiful, bucolic landscape, but it reminded Grandpa of his loss.

  Grandpa sighed. The sadness on his face was so raw and open that Jaq felt his insides get all jumbled up with sorrow.

  He turned to Jaq. “I’m going to tell you what happened,” he said, “even though I don’t like talking about it. But if you can learn something from my mistake, then you should hear it.”

  He leaned against the fence and continued. “Many years ago, I was enjoying life on my magnificent farm, happy as a 16 that doesn’t know a square root is sneaking up, ready to demolish him into a 4. Did I tell you about the manzeeno orchard down by the river?”

  “Yes, Grandpa. Let’s focus on the swindle.”

  “Right. I’ll start over . . . There I was, not a rumble of sadness in my whole being, when who should come for a visit but an old school chum. He’d just moved back to town after living a life of adventure. Oh! The stories he could tell! They were filled with delicious and exotic words, like chimichanga and escalator and jambalaya.

  “Well, my old pal had a fantastic new enterprise that was going to bring unbelievable riches to our world. He just needed some cash to get it going. I had a nice farm, as I’ve told you. Did I mention the wild guarthaberry bushes?”

  “Yes. Did you give him money?”

  “Well, here’s the situation. I had this nice farm, as you know—”

  “I know,” Jaq said, before Grandpa could start reminiscing again.

  “But not a lot of cash. You know farming, Jaq. The money is tied up in the crops and livestock. I had some available funds, but not enough. So I asked my friend Ripley Vilcot to invest with us. We’d each own a third of the business.”

  “Your friend Vilcot?” Jaq said.

  “Yep, we were friends once,” Grandpa said. He shook his head, as if even he couldn’t believe it. At last, he started walking again. “That is, until this other fellow disappeared with our money and Vilcot accused me of being part of the swindle. Vilcot is a prideful man, and he wanted his money back. A Rollop always pays his debts, Jaq. I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, Grandpa.”

  “I had to sell my farm to pay back every last damar he’d invested. It wasn’t enough for Vilcot, though. He wanted to punish me for tricking him, but the police said they couldn’t arrest me, because I’d given him his money back. This infuriated Vilc
ot, so he bought my farm from the fella I’d sold it to and has been making my life miserable ever since. I can’t get a job because he tells everyone I’m a crook.”

  “But can’t he see you weren’t part of the swindle?” Jaq asked. “If you were, you’d have more money.”

  “He thinks I set him up and then got swindled out of my share.” Grandpa stopped walking again. They had passed the vineyards and now stood in front of the Vilcots’ house. “I curse the day that my old friend came back to town. He stole everything from me—my farm, my money, and my trust in people. A thief always steals more than he knows. Oh, he may think he’s just taking your money, but he’s also leaving behind a minefield of sadness. Little explosions of despair pierce your heart whenever you think about what you lost. You never know when those sad memories of loss will strike, and they never go away. That’s what a thief does—leaves behind a lot of sorrow. I couldn’t live with myself if I knew how much sadness I was causing.”

  The man sounded an awful lot like the Swindler, and Jaq knew exactly where to find him: shopping at the marketplace with the money he’d gotten from selling Klingdux. Jaq would tell Grandpa about him as soon as they were done selling the glug. He needed to keep Grandpa focused.

  Jaq’s stare-sense drew his attention to a window in the Vilcots’ house, where he saw Ripley Vilcot scowling down at them.

  “Let’s get moving,” Jaq said.

  Grandpa nodded, and they set off down the road for the market.

  17

  PRIDE IS PARANOID, LIKE AN ORANGE 6

  Old Ripley Vilcot was expecting a visitor.

  He stood at the wide window while his grandson, Tormy, sat on the floor next to him throwing a ball to Klingdux. Vilcot had wanted the boy with him for this meeting. Tormy needed to learn how to deal with shifty people.

  Vilcot didn’t like waiting. He also didn’t like what he saw outside—that devious old Rollop and his grandson. They were just standing there, looking at his farm. Oh, how he hated that family. What were they up to with that big plastic bird? Vilcot didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. As he scowled at the pair of them, the boy looked up and saw him. Then they hurried away, looking guilty.

  Vilcot’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Pay attention, Tormy,” he said. “But first, let him in.”

  Tormy opened the door, then returned to his spot on the floor with Klingdux.

  Vilcot remained standing, gazing out the window. He wanted his visitor to squirm a little, to get nervous about why he’d been called into his boss’s office. This was not a day to mess with Ripley Vilcot.

  At last, the elder Vilcot turned around and spoke. No greeting, no explanation, he got right to business. “How much did you give that boy for this freasel, hmm?” He pointed to Klingdux.

  “What did we agree on?” Davardi replied. “You said no more than thirty. Those were the instructions I followed.”

  “I’m well aware of what I told you. I did not ask you what my instructions were. I asked you how much you gave the boy. And the reason I am asking, Mr. Davardi, is that this morning, my colleague at the hushware factory told me that Mrs. Rollop was happier than a 3. She’s been telling her friends that her money problems are over. I’m asking because you’re standing before me in an expensive leather jacket and matching boots that you weren’t wearing when I gave you the money.”

  “I happen to own lots of clothes that you haven’t seen, Vilcot.”

  “Ah, but do you leave the tags on all of them?”

  Davardi spun around in circles until he found the offending tag, then plucked it off and stuffed it into a pocket.

  Ripley Vilcot came out from behind his desk and approached Davardi, giving him a long, slow gaze from his face down to his new boots and back again. The man is devious, he thought. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him. Small curlicues of black and deep red spun in the corners of his vision.

  “I know how to add things up, Davardi, and this doesn’t add up. I know you’re as shifty as an 8, so tell me now what you gave that boy, or I will make your life miserable. Don’t think I can’t.”

  Davardi shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. “I didn’t give him any damars. I kept them for myself and bought this jacket. I traded for the freasel.”

  “Traded what?”

  “That big key you gave me. It’s pretty, but worthless. It doesn’t open anything.”

  “That kid traded his pet for a key?” Vilcot had trouble believing Davardi’s explanation.

  “The key and a story.” Davardi smiled. “I’ve got a way with words, if I do say so myself.”

  Vilcot nodded. He dismissed Davardi with a swish of his hand. He believed Davardi was telling the truth, but it still didn’t add up. How could a key make the Rollops so happy?

  That key! Oh, how Vilcot hated that key! He’d been happy to get rid of it. But now here it was again, popping up in a situation that had already made him angry.

  Whenever he thought about the key, Vilcot’s jaw clenched in anger. It reminded him of the time he’d lost all his money to Rollop and his con man friend, Plenthy. Sure, he’d gotten his money back from that wicked Rollop, but the thought that he’d been conned still stung his pride. And the key was a slap in the face, meant to remind him of his stupidity.

  Years after Plenthy had disappeared, a messenger had come to the farm and said, “Plenthy told me to give this to you.” At first, Vilcot thought it might be a letter of apology, along with a check reimbursing him for his investment, plus interest. But, no, it was just a key. Nothing else. No note, no money, no apology. Just a stupid, old-fashioned key.

  To Vilcot, it was a cruel gesture on Plenthy’s part. It was as if he was saying, I’ve got your money. Here, have this worthless key. Sucker.

  At first, Vilcot put the key on a stand and kept it on his desk to remind him that people, even friends, were always trying to take advantage. Always. You couldn’t trust anyone. He’d sit at his desk, negotiating deals with other people, and then he’d look at the key and negotiate even harder. He was merciless and never gave an inch. Sometimes the other party got up and left, but no matter! They recognized they wouldn’t be able to swindle old Ripley Vilcot and probably went on to easier targets.

  That reminded him that he still needed to find someone to tend his winnowberry vines, which were dying. Nobody seemed to want to work for him. Bunch of swindlers.

  Vilcot shook his head. Forget about the vines.

  He began to pace as he thought, but as soon as he started walking, he stumbled over Klingdux, who yipped in pain. Vilcot kicked the pest out of the way, and Klingdux yipped again before huddling against the wall. Tormy threw the ball at Klingdux to punish him for not getting out of the way. Then he laughed.

  Vilcot nodded in approval. Then his thoughts returned to the key. He’d gotten so tired of looking at that key and being reminded of his stupidity that he’d given it to Davardi. It looked expensive, so Davardi had immediately wanted it. Foolish, superficial man. And once he realized it was worthless, he’d given it to the Rollops in exchange for that freasel.

  But that didn’t explain why Mrs. Rollop was so happy. If Davardi hadn’t paid for the freasel, then how had Mrs. Rollop suddenly come into money? Why was that boy dragging around a giant fake bird? What were those Rollops up to?

  There could be only one answer. Old Rollop must have found that swindler Plenthy. Old Rollop had gotten his money back . . . he’d gotten Vilcot’s money back.

  Vilcot wanted his money back. Even though he’d taken more from Rollop than he’d lost in his investment, he wanted his money back. It was money he’d been tricked out of, and he was a man who couldn’t stand being tricked.

  He began to form a plan. Swishes of color swirled in his mind as he imagined himself arguing with people. He loved confrontations. They made him feel powerful. Arguing was like taking those pulsing swirls of red and black and hurling them at other people. He never tired of the thrill of binding other
people up with his angry swirls of color.

  “Tormy,” he said, “what happened to the giant bird I bought for you after you got a one hundred percent on your homework?”

  “You never—”

  “I do believe that Rollop boy stole it from you, didn’t he?”

  “But, Grandfather, you never gave me a—”

  “I did. And Jaq stole it from you. How else could a poor, pathetic kid like that have something so grand?”

  “Oh, I get it. Yeah. That was my bird. And he stole it. ’Cause he was mad I bought his wipper-slinger.”

  “Exactly. We should call the police.”

  18

  FOR THE UNSUSPECTING, DANGER WAITS

  Jaq and his Grandpa continued their slow walk, each lost in his own thoughts. Past the Vilcots’ spread they continued down the dusty road, nearing the market.

  “I wish I could find that old Plenthy,” Grandpa said. “I’d drag him back here and make him tell Vilcot the truth.”

  Jaq blinked a few times, unsure that the taste in his mouth was really what he had just heard. “Did you say ‘Plenthy’?”

  “Yes, that was my friend’s name,” Grandpa said. “Yorlim Plenthy.”

  “Grandpa, I know where Plenthy is. He’s on Earth.”

  “Where’s Earth?”

  “Plenthy wrote the note in the key!” Jaq said.

  “What key?” Grandpa asked. “The one you got for your pet? Hey, I never got a look at that key. You still have it?”

  Jaq opened his backpack and pulled out the key.

  “Hot tamale!” Grandpa said. “That’s from Plenthy, all right.”

  “I told you that,” Jaq said. “Are you saying that your partner . . . was Plenthy? That he’s the guy who took your money and ran? That it wasn’t Davardi?”

  “Davardi? That dandy fellow who hangs out in the market? Good grief, no. And if you ask me, Davardi is not that man’s real name.”